Lindet pushed up the street, passed the Palais de Justice, a handsome, massive Italian building, and walked straight to the bishop’s palace. Having reached Évreux, he would do his business and leave it. The gate to the palace was decorated with evergreens and banners, the arms above the archway had been re-gilt and re-coloured; S. Sebastian was very pink, exuded very red blood from his wounds, and the lion of monseigneur ramped in a refulgent new coat of gold leaf. The wooden doors were wide open, displaying the interior of the quadrangle; a long strip of crimson carpet conducted from the gate over the pavement to the principal entrance to the house; footmen in episcopal purple liveries, their hair powdered, skipped hither and thither. Lindet walked straight into the court, and asked to see the bishop. ‘You must wait in the office, yonder,’ said the servant he addressed, with impatience. ‘Please to tell the bishop that I desire to see him.’ ‘You’re mighty imperious. Perhaps he may not want to see you.’ ‘Never mind. Tell him that Thomas Lindet, curé of Bernay, has walked to Évreux on purpose to see him, and see him he must.’ ‘Well, well, sit down in the office.’ Lindet entered the little room, and waited. He waited an hour, and no bishop came; he rang a bell, but it was not answered; then he stepped out into the court, and catching a servant by the arm, insisted on his message being conveyed to monseigneur. ‘This is a mighty inconvenient time,’ said the man; ‘don’t you know that the Prince is expected?’ ‘But not here.’ ‘Yes, here; he stays at the palace.’ Lindet stepped back in astonishment. ‘What does the priest want?’ asked the butler, who was passing at that moment. ‘I have come here desiring to speak with monseigneur. I have come from Bernay on purpose.’ ‘Get along with you,’ said the butler; ‘what do you mean by intruding at this time? Don’t you know that his lordship only sees the parsons on fixed days and hours? Get out of the court at once, you are in the way here.’ ‘I shall not go,’ said the curé, indignantly; ‘I shall not move from this spot till my message has been taken to the bishop. He may be just as indisposed to receive me to-morrow as to-day.’ ‘Ay! he won’t see any of you fellows till the latter end of next week. So now be off!’ ‘What is the matter?’ asked a voice from an upper window. ‘Chopin, who is that?’ The butler and the priest looked up. At an open window stood Monseigneur de Narbonne-Lara, in a bran-new violet cassock and tippet, his gold pectoral cross rubbed up, his stock very stiff, and his dark hair brushed and frizzled. ‘What is all this disturbance about, Chopin, ay?’ ‘Monseigneur!’ replied the butler, bowing to the apparition, ‘here is a curé from Bernay, who persists that he must see your lordship.’ ‘Tell him, Chopin, that I am engaged, and that this is not the proper day.’ ‘Monseigneur,’ began the butler, again bowing; but Lindet interrupted him with--